


At Home

by king_gaara14



Series: Me and My Weird Ships [8]
Category: The Rampage from Exile Tribe (Band)
Genre: Dorks in Love, Established Relationship, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Please Don't Kill Me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:55:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27643760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/king_gaara14/pseuds/king_gaara14
Summary: Makoto reach for his face, poke his face and then smile. He can die a happy man then.
Relationships: Fujiwara Itsuki/Hasegawa Makoto
Series: Me and My Weird Ships [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1354534
Kudos: 8





	At Home

* * *

Itsuki glared at his opened laptop, trying to type something on the chatbox they had with the other boys that Likiya insisted on having for gast communication he said and since he's the leader of course everyone follows. He wastypinga reply to Kazuma who asks about how Makoto is coping after the incident. The incident being Makoto falls from the ladder they have at the studio trying to reach for Shohei's shoes at the top shelf of the 7 feet tall cabinet.

He told Kazuma not to worry too much because he'll take care of Makoto. After sending, he turned to Makoto.

Makoto likes to read on the bed, propped on his stomach with his elbows under him so his spine arches comfortably under the fabric of his worn oversize shirts. He seems to prize his flexibility, how limber he can be, especially after the incident that deemed him to be limbetr, stretching, yawning, straining at every opportunity.

Since the band formed, they had gotten very close and since then Makoto had the habit of sleeping in his house and tonight was one of those rare nights. And it's not like he can complain. 

Itsuki watches him carefully from the chair where he's typing, bent over his laptop. At first, it was a force of habit, making sure the old tremors weren't back, looking for the first sign of a wince or wrinkle in Makoto’s expression, but now he's remembering other reasons to look, eyes drawn to the line of muscle at Makoto's shoulder, the long slope of his spine. He gazed crawls down the length of it to where the fabric pools a little in a shadowed dip before curving out into the swell of his ass.

When Itsuki swallows, Makoto turns his head, brows crinkled a little, his hands folded in front of him, fingers splayed over a page.

"You wanna take a picture?"

Itsuki can read the smirk behind his eyes, along the sharp cut of his cheekbone and the ripe curve of a ready smirk.

He slowly closes the laptop with a click, and moves toward the bed, his head ringing and hands wired.

Makoto starts to shift from his position, but Itsuki’s already on top of him, warm weight, one hand at the back of Makoto’s neck, holding him down, the other one idly stroking up the worn denim casing his thigh.

"Not really."

Makoto's chuckle reverberates through both of them. Itsuki bends so his hair cuts across his eyes, presses his lips to the soft skin right beneath the short hair until Makoto hisses into the sheets. He slowly draws his tongue down over the first knob of Makoto's spine, moving his other hand to the rucked up hem of the worn whitd shirt, drawing it up over Makoto's heaving ribs, bands of muscle bunching and stretching beneath his fingers.

He likes the smooth rough scrape of skin across his palm, the hard line of Makoto's hip, ripple of lean stomach and indrawn breaths. Itsuki sucks a little at Makoto's neck, touch of teeth, presses his weight down before leaning up, breathing warm across the damp skin.

"Fuck, Itsuki."

Makoto tries to turn his head, but Itsuki just draws the shirt the rest of the way over him, ruffling the soft spikes of his hair and trapping his arms, shoulders stretched. The expanse of back in front of him seems to go for miles, milky white skin that dips and curves in the shadows of the room, so smooth under his touch.

Itsuki's mouth is dry, full of a thousand half poetic things that might fly out embarrassingly, but he's too aware of how Makoto would kick his ass, so he just bends and licks all the way down the rolling length of spine, his hands kneading shoulder blades, loving the sharp spun softness of the heated skin. Makoto's swearing and moaning into the pillow by the time he squirms his way down to that beautiful dip, living skin moving above it.

He closes his eyes till his lashes brush skin and Makoto jerks, then slowly licks around the curve, salt and arousal on his tongue, spine arched desperate right against his face.

" Itsuki," says Makoto. " Itsuki." Then something that's barely distinguishable from his slur of swears and groans.

Itsuki slides one hand under Makoto's hips, casually cups the hardness he feels there, undoes his fly and tugs jeans and boxers down, down past taut thighs and knees. Makoto breathes in hard just once when the cool air hits his ass, then grinds his cock into the sheets on a strangled cry. Itsuki keeps in place, hands framing the bucking hips. He wants another taste of salt, goes back to the familiar dip, one hand squeezing the firm curve of ass presented for him.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck Itsuki! Get the fuck on with it - I - " Sheen of sweat along the back now, but Itsuki takes his time, carefully spreads his younger's thighs, nipping at damp flesh until Makoto nearly squeaks, and hell if he's ever letting that one go.

The first swipe of his tongue at the dark shadow of Makoto's opening sends him scrambling, straining forward on the bed. Itsuki inhales, slicks up one finger with his spit and slowly lets the heat overtake it till he's breathing Makoto in, beautifully spread open with tongue and hand, squirming in his grasp. Makoto tightens around him, and Itsuki slicks his tongue up, up over his back again, breathing as he goes, dipping a second finger into the tight, shifting flesh below, pressing.

Makoto tenses beneath him, an utterly open noise escaping from his lips, little catch of breath that's always made Itsuki flush. He curls his fingers against resisting flesh, slick heat, and Makoto's straining against him, barely held down now. Itsuki undoes his own pants, slips his free hand in the pocket of Makoto's jeans until the familiar plastic crinkles in his fingers.

Never unprepared, oh damn. He has to grin. He bends again, tongue circling the stretched entrance, letting his fingers slip out as he shifts up, press of skin on skin, Makoto's fist white knuckled around the sheets.

Itsuki waits until they're chest to back, pressed close enough to feel every shift and breath, before covering it with his own, waits for Makoto's first swear, first denial, but there's nothing, only a bitten off sound the feel of fingers twining around his own. The first, slow slide of his cock feels like something uncurling inside of him, vice and cradle all at once, the burning comfort of his Makoto's body all around him, slicked and stretched out with Itsuki's own tongue, his own fingers.

He breathes, drops his head beside Makoto's on the bed, presses his lips to his cheek, drags one hand up Makoto's side. He can feel the heat of Makoto's back, each knob in the spine, through his own shirt, moving, arching against his every thrust. Makoto's slipped further out of his own jeans, spreading his thighs beneath Itsuki, ass arched up invitingly from his spine, so open it hurts to take from it.

Itsuki can feel the stretch and heat of him all around, absurdly comforting, still taste the dark scent of him, the older salt, on his tongue. He presses, presses until there are white prints rising around his hands, and he's the one with no control now, blindly going forward because it's too much, there's nowhere else, just too much heat, too much hold.

He feels the sheets slick beneath them when Makoto tightens around him, a bitten off moan, and guiltily remembers he hasn't even touched his cock, but by then it's too late, and he goes deep, so deep he's not sure they're even separate anymore, his chest plastered to the familiar map of Makoto's back, a hot flush between them, his insides curling out.

Makoto sighs into the sheets, his book forgotten, fingers curling loosely beneath Itsuki's touch. Itsuki settles into familiar curves, body loose, smiles into his boyfriend's back. They shuddered together as they came.

"I forgot to bookmark it," Makoto mumbles against the sheet.

Itsuki chuckles and kiss Makoto's nape. "You can start at the page you remembered." he slowly pulled out and laid beside the other man. "Kazuma will kill me if he ever knows this." he grinned at Makoto who got horrified expression then turned beetroot red.

Oh damn, Itsuki thought. Even after years and years of being together, Makoto's expression wouldn't tire him off. How much hr loved him really, that sometimes he's scares how deep it is.

Makoto reach for his face, poke his face and then smile. He can die a happy man then.

**Author's Note:**

> All your comment, violent reactions and kudos are all appreciated. All the love as always. Mwuah!


End file.
